Page 12 of The Perfect Stranger

With the action now occurring out front, Josiah and Arturo crawled through the back window. When they landed on the dirt outside, they anxiously waited for the gunshots. They waited for their very breath to become their last. When they heard and saw nothing in the distance, they made a move to the jungle’s edge. Looking back at their destroyed village with a heavy heart, they fled. With what little money they did have, they managed to travel by boat, car, train, and through illegal underground tunnels to get from a tiny village in La Balsa, Colombia to New York. The generosity of others only got them so far. Hungry and without shelter for over a week, and with the fear of being caught, the men finally found me.

“We need your help,” Josiah pleaded. “We don’t know if, by the time we return… if everyone will still be alive. Every day more people die. Your father…” he swallowed hard, and I dreaded the rest of the sentence. “…your father was very ill when we left. But he was certain you would be able to help.”

Help?

“I have no army of my own. I have no idea who these people are or what they want.”

“Your father gave us a name.”

“Who?”

Josiah’s face paled. “Santos.”

Now I understood why.

“Santos?”

“Yes.”

“From Los Santos cartel?”

“Yes.”

Fuck!

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